


olive grove

by lamentum



Series: if i have learned what love is, it is because of you [2]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Affection, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coping, Fluff and Angst, Grief, Spoilers, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:33:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamentum/pseuds/lamentum
Summary: She learned to love herself again through the flowers.





	olive grove

Vesuvia was warm.

When winters came, they were harsh, biting at the pads of her fingers and the tip of her nose, to which Asra would ardently layer blankets both thin and thick over their shared bed and cuddle up to her when that still seemed to not be enough. Though as harsh as the winters were, they were always brief, and the warmth of the sun would soon break through again and wash its warmth over the shop.

There was a small, potted flower bed on the wide expanse of one of the window sills, littered with bromeliads that Farah had so lovingly care for through the cold months— and they would survive, as they always did, but they seemed to lose some of their color and stature, sending her into what Asra saw as endearingly puerile bouts of worry for the makeshift garden, watching as she flitted about with touches of water, subtly adjusting their positioning throughout the day to make sure they got their sun.

She had learned to care for them before she learned to care for herself; before she spoke coherent sentences or made it up the staircase on her own without collapsing, she gravitated towards the plants, and Asra indulged this interest by bringing down books from the top shelf he’d never even touched before and whispering quietly under the mountain of sheets about new and unique plants he’d seen on his journeys, chatting quietly about what would live best inside their cozy little home.

It was a relief for him when the interest flourished, though it did not begin so happily.

He was humming quietly at the stove, mixing a pot of stew that he knew she probably wouldn’t stomach much of _(but it’d been so long since she last ate and he had to try)_ while she was curled up in a quilt at the tiny wooden dining table. Her gaze was blank, drifting back and forth between haze and lucidity, and when she finally focused in fully, it was on the withering leaves decorating the tree just outside the window. She shifted slowly, planting her feet on the hardwood and standing, quiet and sluggish, the only thing alerting Asra to the movement being the pops of her joints harmonizing with the creaking wood before she made slow steps towards the window, placing a palm flat on the glass.

“Farah?”

Asra’s voice was quiet, hesitant; startled, almost. There was a fearful lilt in his tone that escaped her, too entranced to notice. She paid no mind as he walked over to join her where she stood, hovering behind her like a doting mother while her gaze traced the brown edges of the leaf. “It’s an Olive Grove,” he supplied quietly, looking over the tree himself. “Common here, where the winters are usually short. The olives are ready to pick once they shift from green to purple-”

“It’s dying.”

Her voice rang out, blunt.

Asra paused between breaths, his mouth drying out in seconds as he struggled not to _panic_ at the certainty in her words. “It doesn’t tend to withstand harsh winters,” he explained eventually.

“It’s not… surviving.” She blinked slowly. “It’s losing.”

Death was so plain in front of her, and a strange sense of familiarity tugged at her chest, urging her closer to the glass with furrowed brows and tired eyes.

Asra did not enjoy the hint of longing in them.

“It will bloom again in spring,” was all he managed to croak out, and she finally drew your eyes to his face, and processed the sight of him all at once; his lidded eyes _(tired),_ the crease in his brow _(worried),_ the frown tugging at his lips _(upset),_ and the realization that she had somehow upset him to the point where his optimistic facade dropped and left him bare, his naked fear laid out in front of her, weighed down on her shoulders with the loud, incessant echo in her skull of _me my fault all mine better off gone better off-_

His hands smacked down on her shoulders the moment he realized she had begun to spiral, startling her out of her stupor so violently that yshe let out a painfully loud shriek as her body reflexively launched itself into his chest, childlike fear pumping in her veins. His quiet apology was mute under the throb of her own pulse in her eardrums, eyes falling shut as his arms circled around her, a warm, protective cocoon from all of life’s dangers.

After an indiscernible amount of time, she came into focus again, only instead of Asra humming and her joints popping, he was cooing mournful apologies and she was hiccuping weak cries into his chest.

She didn’t have stew that night.

 

He woke the next day to cold sheets, and he had never been more terrified.

In all the months since he’d brought her back, Farah had never gotten out of bed before him. Woken, yes, and he would follow after to the sight of sleepy eyes and mused hair, and the two of them would remain silent and groggy under the sheets for as long as they could before Faust would bump her head to Asra’s nose in a silent demand for breakfast. Never, though, would she find the courage to actually leave his side, lest it just be a quick potty break and then straight back to bed for warmth.

He was utterly disheveled when he reached the bottom of the staircase, eyes wide and searching as he called her name between shallow breaths, and he wasn’t still again until he found her, back at the window. Heaving a relieved sigh, he placed a hand over his own chest, heart hammering in his ribcage, and urged himself back to some sort of calm before he approached you, not wanting to repeat the scare he gave her the night before.

“What are you doing out here?” His voice was quiet, airy, trying to appear more curious and less alarmed than he actually was.

“The tree,” she responded simply, and his gaze lifted to find it just a tad browner than it was the day before, though if she hadn’t pointed it out, he never would have noticed. “It’s still there.”

“...Yes.” He agreed, bring a hand to your bicep slowly and resting it there with a featherlight touch. “It is.”

“It hasn’t died yet.”

“No, I imagine it won’t be dying anytime soon.” He did his best not to appear overbearing or accusatory, scared to set her off again, though he was completely and utterly confused by what exactly her thought process was. She turned to him just as she did the day before, and something, somehow, was different. There was a hopeful sheen in her eyes, and her muscles relaxed under his touch; something about her seemed so much calmer, as if she had suddenly reached some sort of lulled peace within herself.

“Me.”

“You?” He cocked his head, almost amused.

“I’m still here.”

And it hit him all at once.

Asra had tried time and time again to explain her life from before, the person she were before the plague, her apprenticeship with Julian, her friendship with himself and Nadia, but every word would result in an unexplainable migraine, so severe and arduous that it left her incapacitated, wailing in pain as a repetitive pounding settled in her temples. Inevitably, she was a stranger to yourself. She knew nothing of her life and death, and nothing of the second chance he tore his heart out to give her.

She didn’t know, and yet somehow, she knew; somewhere, deep inside her, there was some vague understanding that she was not supposed to be here anymore.

And in this moment with him, sun kissed at dawn with the light pouring in over the two of them, she was finally okay with it.

Tears sprung to his eyes as he stumbled over his words, trying to find something, anything to say, and she shushed him quietly, gathering his quaking shoulders in her arms and bringing his face to her chest, letting him cling to her body and sob. Now, it was finally her turn to comfort him.

She’d managed to lead him back to bed somehow, legs threatening to buckle under her own weight with each step until the two of them collapsed in a heap onto their bed, and left her struggling to pull the blankets back over their bodies in her need for warmth. She murmured a quiet apology in his hair that he strongly denied, gripping the fabric of her shirt as he pulled her body to his, and the two of them drifted off together in a placid sleep.

When he woke, it was to her newly brightened eyes and gentle expression, brushing her fingers through the nest atop his head.

She smiled at him, glowing.

“Can we get some plants?”

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, this was supposed to be a Muriel fic. In someway. I have no idea how this happened.
> 
> I'm very very very happy with how this fic turned out, so I would really love some feedback if you liked it! And if you didn't, of course, constructive criticism is always appreciated.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> (NOTE - December 16th, 2019: this piece has now been modified to reflect my apprentice, as opposed to a traditional reader insert.)


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